


partner

by thefudge



Series: mr. and mrs. holmes [2]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer
Genre: Action/Adventure, Catching feeeeeelings, F/M, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26781346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Sherlock decides to spoil Edith's Sunday morning with some uncalled for adventure.
Relationships: Edith Grayston/Sherlock Holmes
Series: mr. and mrs. holmes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952764
Comments: 37
Kudos: 167





	partner

**Author's Note:**

> so, this will still make sense if you haven't read the previous fic, but it would help if you did, because at this point, I've already established a dynamic/rapport between them. anyway, this was needlessly corny and self-indulgent but it's been a really stressful week and i am gonna treat myself! (and you!)  
> hope you like! 
> 
> (oh yes, and i think there will be a part 3 and 4. note the title of the collection, hehe)

Though Edith must usually wake before dawn, she hardly enjoys it. She would like nothing better than to lie in bed until the sun warmed her pillow. That is why Sundays are her favourites. As a relapsed church goer, she believes it is her right to use this “day of rest” as God intended it, by foregoing any strenuous activity in the morning.

Which is why it is incredibly galling to be on her feet at 6 AM on a Sunday. She’s currently dusting off her most resilient boots for a trek in the moorlands, of all things. Oh, and Sherlock Holmes is waiting for her downstairs with a brougham.

How did he talk her into this ordeal? He used his little sister, of course. He claimed that if they did not go after Mr. Spragg, Enola would surely try to hunt him down herself. This Spragg fellow was the prime suspect in the kidnapping of a young lady by the name of Miss Bryant, whom Enola had befriended of late.

“Come now, Edith, you wouldn’t allow an innocent girl to fall into the wrong hands, would you?”

“Since when do you care about innocent girls?” she’d replied rather archly.

But he was, as always, not to be denied.

When she arrives downstairs, all equipped for a day of unladylike adventures in a non-descript dress and durable boots and stockings, she is baffled to find Sherlock waiting for her in front of the brougham in one of his best suits, looking ready to attend a soiree at Vauxhall.

Edith frowns. “You said there’d be trekking involved.”

Sherlock brushes his lapels, the slant of his mouth vaguely amused. “Yes, and I believe I shall keep up with you just fine.”

“All right, then, suit yourself,” she says, stepping forward to open the door, but Sherlock intercedes. 

“Allow me.”

He takes her hand in his and helps her into the carriage, the other hand at the small of her back, and Edith has to look away to stop from feeling stupid. She sits herself at the opposite end from him, but there is little space between them, and her knees almost brush his as she arranges the folds of her skirt. If she were not sure that Sherlock Holmes couldn’t possibly entertain such schemes in the middle of a case, she might think he were doing all of this on purpose.

Sherlock smiles at her innocently enough as the brougham clatters down the still dark streets.

Edith smiles back and then quickly looks out the window at the scant busybodies claiming the hour on a Sunday. Some of them look like church canons, others like late-night drunkards, but some of them could be both. She can feel Sherlock’s eyes on her still and it makes the back of her neck warm. But she will be resolute and not look at him.

“I see you are not a morning person, Miss Grayston.”

“What makes you say that?” she asks, looking at the china-blue sky of dawn.

“Why, your lovely hair.”

This time she does look at him. His gaze is fixed on an object she cannot see. She lifts her hand to her hair. And gasps.

In her rush this morning, she failed to properly pin her locks in place and now they’ve escaped from their confines and have spilled down her shoulders without her even noticing.

“Oh God, I must look a fright,” she mutters, trying to pin it back.

“I beg to differ,” Sherlock muses, unhelpfully. “It is a very becoming look.”

Edith tries not to blush. “Shush. This is all your fault.”

“Then I must confess I don’t feel very repentant.”

Edith is quite sure she _is_ blushing now. She scowls. “You will, once I’m through with you.”

But of course this only makes him more eager. “Please do convey the method of your castigation.”

Edith has been travelling with him for five minutes and already she wants to throttle him. She smiles sweetly. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

She spends the next minutes trying to repair her hair, but the jolting of the brougham unsteadies her hands.

“Will you let me?” Sherlock asks at length.

She looks at him as if he’s grown a second head. “Excuse me?”

“I might be of some assistance.”

“I hardly think you could –”

But he has already glided in the seat next to hers and is telling her to turn her head.

“Sherlock.”

“ _Edith_. Trust me.”

Those twinkling blue eyes are a real menace sometimes.

She huffs and turns her head.

 _This is highly improper_ , she wants to say, but somehow lacks the words. She can barely feel his fingers as they card through her locks, gathering them in place. He is surprisingly dexterous. Edith sneaks a glance over her shoulder. He’s got two of her pins in his mouth as he weaves the locks together. Edith feels a strange flutter in her belly that she assigns to having had no breakfast. She turns her head back. “Where have you learned to do this?” 

“Oh…here and there.”

“Here and there? This isn’t the sort of thing you pick up in an afternoon, you know.”

There’s silence from his end. She’s about to ask him again when he says, very quietly, “I use wigs for practice.”

Edith stills. “Wigs?”

“That – that sounds more alarming than it actually is.”

“Oh no, it sounds perfectly normal.”

“Really?”

“Of course not!” She turns towards him. “Why on Earth are you in possession of ladies’ wigs?”

Sherlock forces her head back with his fingers as he sets in the last pins. His cheeks are a little pink. “I know many people do not understand the nature of my calling, but it demands knowledge that may seem unconventional or even unorthodox.”

“You believe this will come in handy in a case?”

“Naturally. And it often does. Hair is a wonderfully complicated part of us.” As he says this, his thumb traces the small hairs at the back of her neck and Edith feels a small shiver run down her spine.

“It has always been complicated for _me_ , at least,” she acquiesces, “so I suppose I understand.”

“I knew you would,” Sherlock murmurs.

And before she can tell him that this is still _highly_ improper, he’s moved back in his seat across from her.

Edith breathes out, feeling suddenly quite dizzy. It must be the motion of the carriage.

She lifts a hand to her hair.

“Well?” he asks with a rather impish smile.

“Not bad,” she says, lips twitching against her better judgement.

“Good. Have I done my penance for my previous fault?”

Edith allows herself a smile this time. “Perhaps.”

“I shall live on that ‘perhaps’,” he teases amiably.

And yet, his words have a strange weight, a candidness of youth that puzzles her. 

She forces herself to only look at the world outside. The world inside she knows is strictly forbidden.

_Of course_ there’s a chase.

And of course he’s faster. She doesn’t know how he manages to run so quickly in that tight-fitting waistcoat. Edith can hardly keep up. Sherlock tries to catch her hand, but another shot rends the sky and prevents their reunion.

One of Mr. Spragg’s associates is currently trying to shoot at them and it’s barely past ten. Oh, how she misses her bed!

Edith is suddenly pulled down. Sherlock’s considerable weight falls on her. He’s covering her with his body. She is too shocked to respond at first, but when another shot rings in the air, she pushes against him.

“We can’t just lie here like sitting ducks!” she hisses in the crook of his neck.

“Ideas?” he mutters in her hair. “We are in an open valley.”

Edith grabs his lapels. “Roll me on top of you.”

“ _Pardon_?”

“Trust me,” she whispers, echoing his previous request. “I know what I’m doing.”

Which is not strictly true, but she can live with that lie.

Sherlock grunts and rolls them over. Edith lets herself become one with her arm. The small dagger she extracted from her boot is just the right kind for this sort of operation. She has the man in her sight. And she throws the blade not at his chest, which would give him time to shoot a few more times, but at that sensitive part where the thigh teems with nerves and blood.

A second becomes an eternity as the dagger flies through the air. And hits flesh.

The man stumbles with a howl and drops his gun.

Edith is still straddling Sherlock, smiling triumphantly.

The famous detective allows himself only one moment to behold her in all her glory before he quickly springs into action.

He summarily immobilizes and ties up their unfriendly shooter, not before securing a tourniquet around his thigh, which he does quite aptly.

Edith wipes sweat from her brow. He’s done such a good job with her hair that no stray curl has escaped the pins.

A bout of laughter tickles the back of her throat.

Sherlock is at her side a moment later, inspecting her for any inflicted wounds. His hands are on her shoulders, his face etched with concern. “Are you all right?”

She chuckles, flustered. “Don’t look at me. He’s the one currently incapacitated.”

Sherlock exhales. “That was a brilliant throw.”

“I know.”

A feeling of elation has seized them both after being so close to mortal peril. He leans forward, almost as if to bottle this shared sense of joy. And Edith is almost tempted to give in, though she doesn’t know exactly what that might entail.

But at the last moment he draws away. “I apologize. I’ve placed you in a great deal of danger. I did not calculate the possibility of a second kidnapper.”

Edith blinks, startled at the abrupt change. “What do you mean ‘second kidnapper’? Isn’t he in league with Spragg?”

“Oh, no. Clearly, this man is also trying to capture our Miss Bryant and believes we are competition.”

Edith frowns. “Why would he think that? And why would so many men want to kidnap her?”

“Because someone is willing to pay handsomely to have her brought back alive. Our Miss Bryant has information that matters a great deal to an important man. I deduced after speaking with Enola that she was not initially kidnapped, but had run away from London. She was intercepted on the road by this Mr. Spragg. I admit I was not entirely certain of this hypothesis, but after this morning’s adventure I believe we are on the right course.”

Edith shakes her head. “Well, we must be, since we almost lost our lives for it. The young lady must be in close vicinity, at least.”

“Oh no, she’s probably back in London.”

“ _What_?”

“Yes, Mr. Spragg is keeping her hidden. I now believe he only came up here to lure our shooter. In fact, he’ll probably descend upon us any minute now.”

Sherlock lifts the gun he has pilfered from their captive.

“You might want to get behind me, Miss Grayston. I’m just as good a shot as you are a knife thrower.”

And he has the gall to wink at her. After everything he’s put her through!

But she must admit, this Sunday morning has not been entirely profitless.

Edith sits down at the foot of a giant, gnarled oak and fingers a fallen leaf the colour of ripe quinces. She lifts it to her nose. She’s always rather liked the smell of nature in decay.

Sherlock finds her lost in such meditations when he traipses to her spot.

“We shall be able to leave soon. Scotland Yard moves at a glacial pace, as usual, but even they must sense the urgency of the situation. I suspect Spragg will not be very talkative at first, but I have a few ideas as to how we may persuade him. Finding Miss Bryant is the important object now, before another fellow goes on the hunt for her.”

Edith puts the leaf in her pocket. “I have a feeling Enola might like to help with that. London has become as much her turf as it is yours.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You may be right, but I still worry about her. Force of habit, I suppose.”

“It’s good that you worry. She will appreciate your concern as long as you don’t stand in her way.”

“Mm, you speak from personal experience,” he remarks pointedly.

They share a smile.

Edith reaches for a low branch to raise herself up, but Sherlock takes her arm and lifts her to him. He holds her still for a moment.

“You saved us both back there.”

Edith nestles her hands between them. “Well, it was good of you to listen to me.”

She also hasn’t forgotten the way his body covered hers, the way he placed himself in the line of bullets. But she can’t bring it up now. She doesn’t know if she ever can.

“It’s always wise to listen to one’s partner in such situations.”

“Partner?” she asks hoarsely.

“Well, I certainly did not do it on my own, did I? And I so often do.”

Edith feels like contradicting him. She won’t work with him. And she won’t be associated with him, either. She knows better. But in this moment, with the sun falling behind them and the sweet smell of autumn in the air and his dark blue eyes looking at her with that sly mixture of earnestness and intrigue, she can deny him nothing.

The bastard.

He raises her hand to his mouth and kisses the knuckles where the scent of leaves still lingers.

Edith doesn’t say anything.

No one has ever kissed her hand like that.

When Inspector Lestrade interrupts them a moment later, she steps away from him as if burned. Sherlock soon leaves her side to speak with the Inspector, but the kiss lingers on her knuckles all the way back to London.


End file.
